<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>A Kiss with A Fist by crewdlydrawn</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/22545163">A Kiss with A Fist</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/crewdlydrawn/pseuds/crewdlydrawn'>crewdlydrawn</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Stranger Things (TV 2016)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Boxing, Boys Being Idiots, Characters Are Adults, Fight Sex, Grinding, Kickboxing, M/M, Short, Short One Shot, Sort Of, Tommy Hagan and Jim Hopper are mentioned but not featured</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-02-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-02-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-04-28 14:56:24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,467</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/22545163</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/crewdlydrawn/pseuds/crewdlydrawn</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve Harrington and Billy Hargrove are members of a small kickboxing league.  They're set up to fight, but attraction is immediate.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>83</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>A Kiss with A Fist</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/Menirva/gifts">Menirva</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Author knows next to nothing about boxing/kickboxing except from movies and TV.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Water squirted at his face, only about half of it hitting the mark and making it into his mouth.  That was enough to take the edge of heat off, to wash a little of the salty-sweet taste of blood from his lips.  His tongue flicked out for the rest, gathering drops of watered down blood and eyeing the opposite side of the ring. </p><p>Steve “The Hair” Harrington had been lucky he’d gotten a look at his opponent before the bell, or he’d have gotten his jaw rung off before he’d have had a chance to pull up a block.  Loose shorts and a strap-on cup were only doing so much of a good job of hiding the growing excitement between his legs.  There was no fanfare before fights in his league, only a walk-up that hardly ever got music like the ‘pro’s unless someone got fancy.  Yet there was this motherfucker, cloud of goldenrod curls like a halo under the hanging fluorescents, cocky smirk a mile wide, and that one damn dangle-down earring that he had his coach take off, at the ring’s edge, just before they’d started.</p><p>If that wasn’t a flashy start, Steve wouldn’t know what one was if it hit him like a gloved fist.</p><p>He had a habit of staring down his opposition, of course, watching the matching of their moves with their eyes, keeping the intensity up, but those damn blue rings nearly sparked like tiny little fireworks as they matched up with Steve’s.  They were half-lidded, his head tilted back on the other side of the ring, not sleepy from punches so much as acting like one of those dolls that closed its eyes when you set it down.  Steve laughed quietly at his own comparison, drawing Tommy’s attention.</p><p>“Look, man, I know you get giddy from your bell getting rung, but we’re a few rounds too early for that shit… you alright?”  Tommy wiped over Steve’s face again, catching fresh blood that mingled with the sweat that wouldn’t stop until well after the fight was over.  In all fairness, neither would the blood, or the ache spreading from a surprise shin to his ribs.</p><p>Steve pushed the towel away with the back of a glove, swallowing more water this time.  “Yeah, ‘m fine,” he insisted, eyes not having left the other corner.  A doll, alright.  A sweaty, smirky, cocky, slightly-bloodied doll.  Steve wanted it.</p><p>When Tommy still looked skeptical in a sidelong glance, Steve rolled his eyes and stuck his neck out, mouth open, jerking his head up sharply.  Summoning successful, Tommy stuck Steve’s mouth guard between his teeth.  A tap of his gloves and a rubber-toothed grin at Tommy, and Steve was back on his feet, ready for the bell. </p><p>__________</p><p>Across the floor, Billy “The Kid” Hargrove had already recovered from his break time, and was up on his feet, bouncing from ball to ball, tapping his gloves.  Copper still tinged his mouth from a good hit he’d taken, and the patch job Hopper had done on his brow was only holding so well, but otherwise the first round hadn’t bought him much pain.  This Harrington wasn’t as quick on his feet, focusing more on his arms than his legs, when legs were Billy’s specialty.</p><p>He’d gotten a quick shot in early, and the wide-eyed shock on his opponent’s face had been like a drug to Billy’s veins.  A thrill had shot up his spine, straight through his nerves, and he was enjoying himself even before they started up again, just imagining making him make that face again.  Then again, he could easily imagine some <em>other</em> faces Harrington could make, and rather than distract him, they just made Billy more eager to get him under his hands. </p><p>Nodding across the empty floor space, Billy stepped his way up to tap gloves again, offering his opponent a wink.  Harrington’s brows twitched, though he managed to keep the rest of his face even, if a little slack.  Just enough slack to look like a fucking idiot. </p><p>Bell rung, Billy’s feet were on the move, hardly touching the same spot of dusty floor a second at a time.  Harrington came for him quick, but not quick enough.  Billy dodged to the left, a knee at the ready to aim for Harrington’s sternum as he passed by.  His body stumbled forward, air pushed out in a rush, before being sucked back in with the effort of turning that momentum.  Boy could take a hit, Billy had to hand it to him. </p><p>In a burst of light, all Billy could see for a second was the corner of the ropes behind him.  It took a moment to feel the pain in his jaw, and it worsened when he grinned, but the sound of Harrington’s body hitting the mat after his leg swept out was just too satisfying.  Up again, hit again, drops of blood following the trajectory of Billy’s fist. </p><p>__________</p><p>He would have said it was like a dance, except dances didn’t usually hurt.  Maybe the toes of girls Steve had tried to waltz with back in high school, but otherwise, not so much.  Yet there they were, moving circles around the floor, trading motion and momentum forward and backward and forward again.  Steve found his ass on the mat more often than he would’ve liked to admit without witnesses, and his ribs were bruised up well before the next bell, but Hargrove’s face was almost as bloody as he felt like his own was, and that was satisfying enough as he swallowed in some more water.</p><p>Five rounds were allowed, but it only took The Kid three rounds to get Steve on his ass hard enough that he couldn’t get up before the count.  His head spun, and it hurt to breathe, and he was pretty damn certain that the floor was sinking underneath his back and leg, but Hargrove was there above him, grinning like an idiot, offering him a hand.  That wasn’t typical.</p><p>With a dizzy reach, the room’s noise having faded away around him, Steve grasped the offered hand and wrist, allowing them to haul him up back on his feet.  Rather than stopping or standing still, the room tilted violently, and before Steve had a chance to tell up from down, a strong arm slung itself behind and under his arms, hefting him to the ropes.  </p><p>“Whadderya doin’, ‘sfine,” Steve insisted, bumping his glove against Hargrove’s chest, then once more for good measure.  Flushed and sweaty, it didn’t even budge under the pressure.  It did shake with a chuckle, though.</p><p>“Let’s get you to the lockers, tiger.”</p><p>Steve could hear Tommy call after him, but he waved him off.  At least, he thought he waved him off.  He was pretty sure his arm rose and fell, in any case. </p><p>__________</p><p>They were supposed to be in the same weight class, and yet Harrington felt like a lightweight even stumbling along under Billy’s help.  Hop had raised an eyebrow on Billy’s way by, but Billy had just offered half a shrug as he got Steve into the open locker room.  Dropping him onto a bench, he had to chuckle again at the undignified squeak Steve let out at the impact. </p><p>“Don’t laugh, jerk,” Harrington groaned, and Billy could hear the depth of it that went far below embarrassment. </p><p>Biting the straps open with his teeth, Billy tossed aside his gloves and grabbed up Harrington under the arms, standing him up roughly against the wall of metal lockers.  There, right there, were the wide-eyes of surprise that Billy had wanted to see again.  Tongue between his teeth, he grinned wickedly.  “Gotcha.”</p><p>As he watched, Harrington flicked his tongue over his lips, frowning just a little at how much blood was there to taste, but running his eyes down Billy’s body and back up again.  “You, uh…?”</p><p>“I what, Hair-boy?”  Billy sent his knee forward, between Harrington’s, the top of his thigh grinding at them.  A small motion raised it just enough to bump at the bulge Billy had seen sporting inside Harrington’s shorts since damn near the starting bell.</p><p>“THE Hair,” came the correction, all indignation and sass, in direct contrast to the groan that Billy had already expected.</p><p>Billy nodded, placating, and sent long, tape-separated fingers through the locks in question.  “I guess it’s worth a name,” he teased.</p><p>__________</p><p>Steve’s first instinct was to jerk his head away.  No one touched the hair.  No.  One.  But those fingers?  Maybe it was because he was already worked up, maybe it was how Hargrove’s fingertips dug into his scalp just enough for Steve’s skin to feel the rough edges of his nails.  Even when his fist tightened, tugging at the roots, Steve only ground his hips down against Hargrove’s leg, thrilled by the sharp pain contrasting with the bloodrush south.</p><p>With that self-confident tongue back between his teeth, Hargrove was just asking for Steve to bite at it, and who was he not to comply?  He managed just a tiny nip before that tongue drove right into his mouth, the force of the motion nearly smacking Steve’s head back against the lockers again.  It was probably only the grip in his hair that stopped it.</p><p>Reaching to return the favor, Steve only grunted in frustration when he realized that HE still had his fight gloves on, and had no individual fingers free to grab onto anything at all.  In a mostly useless move, he rubbed the glove over Hargrove’s head anyway, though that immediately lost him the liplock.</p><p>“Ah-ah,” Hargrove admonished, a firm lack of tease to his voice.  “No hair.”</p><p>Steve had to laugh, but it was short and sharp, lacking much breath in his lungs to support it—that, and deep breaths weren’t exactly his specialty at the moment, in general.  “Oh, so mine’s fair game, but yours is untouchable?”</p><p>“That’s right.”  Another sharp tug had Steve’s eyes half-closed, and he knew the moment the moan left his throat that he’d already lost this round of the fight before it could really get started.  He couldn’t say he truly minded, though those curls were coming loose around Hargrove’s ears, all temptation and distraction.</p><p>He had a different plan for that.</p><p>__________</p><p>With a surge forward, Harrington’s cheek slammed into Billy’s, but before he could muster a mere ‘what the fuck’, a sharp tug rang over the side of his scalp.  Harrington’s head retreated, all smirk and an overabundant amount of pride, and Billy understood.</p><p>“Did you just fucking BITE my HAIR?”</p><p>The offended strands were still pinned between Harrington’s teeth, and his only reply was to jank his eyebrows up and down like an idiot.  Billy’s hard on was threatening to leap out of his shorts on its own.</p><p>What did leap was Harrington.</p><p>In what seemed a barely controlled push away from the lockers, Billy stumbled backward and was directed down to sit on the bench behind him a bit more firmly than a sensitively hardened dick would prefer, and he let his hiss complain for him.  Harrington’s bitch ass wasn’t apologetic in the slightest. </p><p>Though his frame was smaller than Billy’s, Harrington sat heavily in his lap as he straddled him, pushing Billy’s shoulders back to meet the flat wood board.  It wasn’t nearly wide enough to properly support him, but it was just enough to balance.</p><p>“Taking charge, Gloves?”  Like a pet name, Billy laughed at being pushed around by someone who couldn’t even use his fingers at the moment.  At least his hair had been released before they’d moved across the room.</p><p>Those gloves pressed firmly down on Billy’s shoulders, their owner smug despite the bruises continuing to bloom across his face.  “Gotta pin you somehow,” he confirmed.  With a draw that started over Billy’s legs, Harrington managed to wriggle his shorts down below his dick, the length of it popping out like an overeager puppy.  Momentum whapped it down against Billy’s, and then smirk above him grinned through a short and happy moan.</p><p>“Well,” Billy half-mocked, taking advantage of his hands being the only free ones to flick a finger against Harrington’s shaft before fishing out his own, “at least <em>part</em> of you is free, now.” </p><p>Conversation after skin met skin wasn’t so graceful.  Billy’s cock was happy enough to have the weight of Harrington’s against it, the drag of it, the way it bent upwards just enough to connect and draw away with his motion.  Stuttered grunts and forced-air breathing took over for teases and banter, hair pulling was forgotten for fingers digging into sides, Harrington’s teeth more occupied with clenching against each other than anything outside his mouth. </p><p>Billy was content enough to stay on his back with a cloud of hair hanging above him, letting him do most of the work as Harrington dragged his hips over Billy’s, less graceful than their fight, and certainly less lengthy.  Harrington got there first, but Billy had no plans to let him off so easily.  Wrapping his hand around both of their cocks, he squeezed pointedly, enjoying the protesting groan as he jerked them both off in quick, rough pulls. </p><p>__________</p><p>A hiss shot through Steve’s teeth at the overstimulation, Hargrove not seeming to care that he’d already gone off, that maybe he could just jerk <em>himself</em>, or that he should have maybe started sooner.  Prickly sensation dominated his shaft, but he got no traction when he tried to draw his hips back.</p><p>“Asshole,” he muttered, pushing his gloves harshly into Hargrove’s shoulders. </p><p>The epithet only had Hargrove’s tongue between his teeth in a satisfied mock while he kept going, tugging harshly.  “Not today.”</p><p>“That’s not—”  But there was no point in clarifying, because Hargrove’s head tilted back, his body shuddering beneath Steve’s.  Eyes closed, hair fanned out over the bench and draping off the sides, Hargrove gained an angelic sort of glow as he shot off.  Steve felt his cum splash up against his stomach and chest, but mostly he was relieved that his dick was let go.  The ticklish feeling started to fade, and he worried more over catching his breath and balance while Hargrove breathed slowly under him.</p><p>Blood still rushed through his ears, but Steve’s legs were rubber before he had his breath back, and it took a shot-out arm to keep him from tumbling off of his perch and onto the concrete floor.  Reaching to grab the arm in return got him nothing as the glove slid along sweat-slicked skin, and Steve rolled his eyes. </p><p>“I want a rematch,” he threatened, a completely useless offering while his legs barely graced the floor.</p><p>Hefting Steve’s arm over his wide shoulders, Hargrove stood them up.  “Anytime, Hair-Boy.”  Half-dragging half-walking, Steve was guided towards the showers.</p><p>“Hair-<em>Man</em>,” he argued.</p>
  </div></div>
</body>
</html>